To Wait or Not…

 

Writing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

To Wait or Not…

 

Traci Kenworth

 

 

 

So, I’ve got this dilemma. Now that I’ve finished my first draft of my current wip, I’m

 

not sure how long to wait in-between drafts. I’ve gone a couple weeks already since writing “the end.” I’m wondering if I should wait another two, or perhaps longer. You see, when I start “tearing things apart” or as we like to call, “editing,” I tend to take a long time doing so. And before you know it, the holidays are going to be upon us. I’ve read that agents don’t like their e-mail boxes cluttered during that time.

 

I’m excited about this book. I think it could possibly be “the one.” The trouble is, I don’t

 

want to rush it. I get all butterfly-feeling inside when I think of doing things wrong. Yet, I know that I also tend to procrastinate when it comes time to query and hold myself back when I should be pressing forward. I don’t think there’s too much to be changed, as far as major plot points right now. Though that may change after I get the results back from my beta readers perhaps. I’ve already sent it the rounds through my cps.

 

This morning, I came up with a cool new idea for another short story(I’ve already

 

finished one.) I could start that while I’m doing the waiting game. It should be time to polish the finished short story after that. There’s things to do. It’s just a matter of whether I want to put aside LATWD longer or shove into the editing phase. The way things look, if I do wait and get caught in the holiday crunch, it may be next year before I can query it. I’m not sure I want to wait that long.

 

Opinions? How long do you usually wait before digging into edits? Has there ever been a

 

time you’ve felt you rushed it? Or taken too long to get back to it?

 

 

 

 

 

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The Stage

Clarita from Morquefile.

The Stage

Traci Kenworth

 

My hand closed on the curtain leading to the stage. This was it. The big moment. Before I’d been a part of the audience, this time, the devue had come for me. At fourteen, I’d longed for the year I’d be chosen. My chance to escape from this nightmarish world. Death would be welcome, a gift from being a food for one of the hellish creatures, who roamed the American Republic. I shivered as a shove came from behind and literally tripped onto the theater floor.

A woman, most likely a pet of the Society that ran these auditions, dressed in an all-black costume that looked like something out of a long-ago, whispered fairytale. I’d been a first-grader when the third world war struck, two years later, the monsters had attacked.  Now the Society ran the 1/3 of the country not governed by the enemy factions. Slowly, they were working their way into the military areas as well.

I could hear the children in the cages below, begging, pleading to be me. I’d been in their shoes many a time. First when I watched my Momma and then my Daddy take that chair, draw their chance at a lottery to be free. No more feeding pigs to an army of darkness. I’d gazed at their broken, weary bodies and wished I were them. To have it all end. I couldn’t stand the sucking, the slurping, or the chewing. Most of all, looking into a face so—human—it was eerie.

Picking myself up from the platform, I staggered thanks to a twisted ankle, over to the chair in the center. Tears clung to my eyelashes. Would they turn me away? Repulsed by an offering not perfect? There came no warning bells, no whistles and I breathed a sigh of relief. I sat down, braced myself, and waited.

I heard the sound of ropes swaying above, imagining which of the creatures would descend on her. The dark lady in the costume introduced me. “Mereketh, everyone. She looks to be a fine morsel indeed.” She cued the buckets of blood to be dropped on me. Hisses and yowls came from around me in the faces of a human population gone wrong.

I waited for just the right moment, balling my fists, as they crept toward me. It would be so easy—to let go—but I continued to let them surround me. As they began to fight among one another to see who would be leader of the pack, I drew my hands forward and uncurled my fingers. The toxic fumes reached into their midst and slashed the flesh from their bones as they’d done to many of ours.

I heard the children cry out and then cheer, something they hadn’t done in forever. When I hobbled from the chair, not a monster was standing, they’d all succumbed to magic they’d long forgotten. A magic not always grown on the Akara Mountains, but sometimes, in the heart of people everywhere.

 

Check out the other yaff ladies’ stories:

Vanessa

Rebekah

 

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Still on Hiatus…

Still on hiatus…

Traci Kenworth

 

 

Well, the betas are off! For those of you who don’t know what betas are, they’re readers who take on the challenge of reading over your manuscript before its published to catch any glaring errors/plot holes etc. They’re invaluable to a writer and I’m grateful for each and every one of them. After they come back in, during which I’m taking a three week break, I will spit and polish it some more.

Meanwhile, I’m going to be catching up on my housework, writing short stories, and enjoying life in general. Oh, and getting those notes and lists of agents out and going over them again, to select possibilities. Each one has something unique to offer and I want to be sure to get one compatible with me. I’ve heard horror stories about bad relationships so I’m praying to avoid that. I’ve been doing my research for a while and just need to brush up on their rules/submission guidelines.

I’ve already picked out my next story and have the reverse outlines, notes, character sketches & photos, all set to go. Plus I’ll be editing a second book on the side. It’s going to be a merry-go-round but I think I can handle it. Besides, have to gear up for the day when I’ll have deadlines to adhere to. So it’s off to cleaning my desk off to get it ready for future endeavors, while retaining what I need of the story for when the betas come back.

So how about you? Where are you at in your work-in-progress? Are you querying? Starting a fresh project?

 

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The Three Faces of Death

Ardelfin at morquefile.com

The Three Faces of Death

Traci Kenworth

 

That summer came in early, wet and stormy. I danced in a few puddles, and then cringed at the thought of someone seeing me out here, acting so childish. Seventeen wasn’t an age to veer from your course, otherwise, you could end up backtracked to Antarctica when it came to the popular crowd. I’d just stepped into their midst, and wasn’t about to be banished again. All my life, I’d watched them, hated them, and envied them.

A horn beeped twice before the car pulled over, Jesse inside.

I smiled just the way any cheerleader had been taught. Models had nothing on us. We were the it deal and everybody knew it.

He patted the seat beside him. “Get in.”

“Sure,” I said as butterflies somersaulted inside my stomach. Jesse Andrews was the hot everything at Fairlawn High. I’d worked my way up through the chain of command to shine in a tiny yellow skirt beside him.

He took the curves fast, the open road even faster. Soon we’d left the city lights behind us headed for anywhere. Jesse ran his hand up my thigh and I giggled my encouragement. Everything was falling into place. This was the best time of my life. His fingers explored further. He swerved over into the other lane. We skirted another curve. The Neon appeared in the headlights moments before Jesse hit the brakes. He had time to curse and dig down into my skin and then the crunch of metal silenced all.

Everyone said I was lucky I escaped the crash without a scratch. At the funeral, I could see it all in my classmates’ gazes: the blame. It took me a good year to drown the sorrow and the pain. I mean, how do you get over something like that? I couldn’t bear to shut my eyes at night because the image of Jesse was always there. Except, now, he wore a black cape and visited others in my nightmares. At the end of every one, he’d swing around and wink at me. As if we shared some great secret.

Jenny Bartlett was the last of the popular crowd to stick by me. Mostly, I suppose, because she was the one who took pity on me in the first place and invited me into the circle. She was smart, funny, talented, an all-around loved girl. But her efforts to save those beneath her loosened her crown. Others whispered. Said it wasn’t right. They somehow convinced themselves that we were dragging her down into a pit she couldn’t crawl out of. The rumors began to prey on her. Her boyfriend convinced me to talk to her about getting help when the depression deepened.

Five months later, she committed suicide.

I was left alone for good. The hallways cleared when I walked down them, others spit on my tracks after I was gone. Cyber-stalking took on a new meaning when it came to me. I was nicknamed, “Death.” I transferred schools twice but the identity followed as did the dreams. Jenny had joined Jesse as a reaper. Both motioned to me to follow them but I didn’t know how. Until my Mom left.

What little was left of my world came crashing down. I tried drugs, drank harder liquor, shoved myself into danger again and again. One night I went so high, I was able to grasp their hands. They held on tight and wouldn’t let me fall again. Now, I walk through darkness, side by side with my friends. We are the haunts in your night terrors, the last faces you see before you die. We are everything perfect, and everything to be feared.

We are death. Three faces united, statues in the cemetery, sprung to life.

Rebekah Purdy

Kelbian Naidoo

Vanessa Barger

Miranda Buchanon

Jenn Fischetto

Kit Forbes

Joey Nichols

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The Gaming Hall

  Photo credit jppi from morguefile.

The Gaming Hall

Traci Kenworth

 

I wasn’t supposed to be in here, to see what went on, but hey, when your sixteen rules are meant to be broken. Especially when it may attract attention from parents who act like you don’t exist anymore since the divorce. Not that I wanted them crushing my world further than it was, but I’d heard things about this place. Things I hoped were true.

“What’s your name?” the woman in charge of the dice asked.

“Madeline Grace Hill,” I squeaked.

“Do you prefer Maddy?”

I nodded.

“Well, this table you’re sitting at is special but I can see right away that you need this more than most.”

I leaned forward. “Can it really help me? Get the two of them together again? To fix everything?”

She smiled. “I can promise, if the dice rolls right, they’ll never be apart again.”

I took the dice in hand. They felt cold, slimy to the touch. I shivered in despite of the sweltering heat outside and in the room. The background around us seemed to fade, the noise of the crowd drowned out. There was only the two of us—and a wish.

“Choose your bet,” she said.

“Seven.”

“Lucky sevens. Let’s roll.”

I wiggled the pieces in my hand and then let them fly forth.

The dice tipped and landed on—seven.

My hand went to my throat.

“A winner in the house,” the woman called. She glanced at me and her smile appeared a bit—toothy. And not the crooked kind of way, but gappy like a creature in a horror flick. “Go home, Maddy.”

I stood then paused. “But how will I know it worked?”

She tapped the dice. “The magic is in the dice.”

I hurried home through twisted, populated streets. Caught the subway and felt the splash as we went under the river above. I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other as I went to the door. A blood-curdling scream unlocked my hesitancy.

Inside, I found them.

Hooked together like Siamese twins.

On the sofa, the woman from the table stood. “You see, now they’ll have to get along.”

I stared in horror as each reached for a knife.

The woman shrugged. “Or maybe not.” She stepped toward me. “But, in any case, there’s a price to be paid for the wish.” She licked her needle-like teeth.

The End

Miranda

Vanessa

Kelbian

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Ghost Cannons…

Photo Credit: Vanessa Barger

Ghost Cannons

Traci Kenworth

The billows of smoke stung my nostrils. So much for a summer to relax, I thought.

Instead, I’d spend it here among old artifacts and forgotten memories. Talking to ghosts. And wishing for so much more.

“Maggie,” Josh Winters sprinted to catch up.

I slowed my pace, hoping I wouldn’t blush at his nearness again. A cute boy to share the warm weather with wasn’t a bad trade. Still, I wished that all this history stuff would just go back into the dusty archives it rested in. Josh, my father, and Dean Wittimer’s father felt different though. To them, this was the life. They spent all their free time searching past volumes, shedding light on a time long past. What good did it serve to know about eighteenth-century mortars, howitzers, and guns or cannons? Not like they could help me pursue the one thing I wanted: someone to share my life.

It did give us something to talk about though.

“Did you see it?” he said as he pushed his glasses back on his face. “The four-pounder galloper? So much for being lightning fast on the military field?”

“Yes, but revolutionary for its time.”

He laughed. “You had to sneak that word in there, didn’t you?”

“Why not?” I smiled. “So many people study the Civil War, fewer truly know of the Revolutionary one.”

“But our dads are going to make that difference, aren’t they?”

I nodded.

“So,” he said as we walked along, “I saw you and Dean talking the other day—”

“Oh, yeah. We were discussing projectiles and the idea of the Americans dodging the British cannonballs like they were no more than soccer balls on the field.”

“Imagine kicking one of those things. You’d break your foot in many different places.”

“Good thing they were better at dancing a jig over them.”

Josh cleared his throat. “Speaking of dancing…were you going to Friday’s at Gayle’s house?”

Gayle Anderson? The girl rumored to be Josh’s girlfriend? Even Alexander had hinted he’d seen Josh and her out near the monuments. My heart sank. Love just wasn’t meant for me I guess. I shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Well, I wanted to invite you. To you know, hang out with me and Gayle. If you want.”

Dean came over to us then. He was another hottie, but we were just good friends. He frowned at Josh. “She’s no second stringer.”

Josh gulped and backed a bit at Dean’s muscles.

“It’s not like that,” Josh said.

Dean hovered over him. “Isn’t it?”

Josh continued to stammer.

I opened my mouth but Dean said, “Say, Maggie, take a walk with me?”

I glanced from him to Josh and back again. “Sure.”

Josh didn’t protest as Dean led me away.

I pulled my arm from his several yards out. “What was that about?”

“You want to date the guy, right?”

I nodded.

“Then give him a little competition.”

“I suppose you want to volunteer to help me along?”

He grinned and my heart just about stopped. What was it about best guy friends? “Sure, why not?”

We began to walk again. Coming upon an old howitzer, we both stopped as a ghost stepped out before us.

“Morning to you.”

I crossed my arms. “Alexander, you’ve got to stop doing this.”

He gave me an innocent smile. “Doing what?”

Dean laughed. “She just doesn’t want you interfering with her catching Josh.”

Alexander eyed me. “The Winters chap?” He gestured to Dean. “Always thought you’d get along more famously with this one.”

Dean lifted his arms. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her. Our dads are both good friends, we share the same distaste of history, and then there’s you. Who knew we’d both be able to see and talk to you?”

“Careful there now, lad.” He jerked his thumb back behind us. “The fog of war is about to come out.”

Sure enough the billows of cannon fire swept around us, scrubbing us from each other’s sight. The acrid smell of the pineapple shot made my nose wrinkle. I held my breath, waiting for the smoke to clear. When it did, both grinned at me.

“Take the advice of an old ghost, Maggie. There are a thousand Josh Winters out there. Smart boy, handsome enough, but these,” he jabbed a finger at Dean, “only come once in a lifetime. Snap him up.” He winked. “Besides, didn’t I hear those friends of yours saying most girls prefer the bad boy to the good one.”

“Hey,” Dean scowled, “I’m not bad—”

“Shush, lad. Trying to help your case here.”

“Well, maybe,” Dean stepped real close to me, put his arms around me, and leaned down to kiss me, “This will prove it better.”

Cannon fire erupted around us once more, and the thick fog moved in, but we stood within each other’s arms, lost to everything but the kiss.

Alexander muttered something about his job being done here.

“Does that mean you won’t return?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ll be around, just a little less visible.”

“We’ll miss you,” Dean said, his hand covering mine.

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Birthplace

Here it is phrase of the week again for the YAFF Muse Blog:

A rock sailed through the broken window, catching a jagged piece of glass and spraying shards….

Birthplace

Traci Kenworth

A rock sailed through the broken window, catching a jagged piece of glass and spraying shards of the test tubes, Bunson burners, and glass specimens of different species over the lab floor. My containment tank cracked at the force of the next missile. I flailed as the liquid burst forth sending me crashing onto the tile. My eyes blinked, adjusting to the light.

I put a hand to a steel cabinet and hauled myself up.

Empty, staring gazes met mine as I looked around the room.

And I remembered.

Signing up.

The handshakes.

Mysterious smiles.

Clauses I couldn’t understand.

There’d been no choice. I was destitute. No family, no friends. The perfect choice for an experiment. I touched my face and looked down at my body. No six legs, two, just the same as I remembered them. Likewise with my hands. I looked for all appearances the same as when I came in. So what had they done to me? The sterile atmosphere of the lab mixed with the smells of strong coffee. My nostrils picked up another scent. Faint but getting closer. I zeroed in on it. Pounding, steady, alive. My mouth watered. I slid to the side of the doors just as the whooshed open, admitted an intern. I was on her before she had a chance to turn.

My teeth extended, as thick as a cougar’s, and ravaged her neck.

Blood, warm, juicy, filled me and yet, I hungered for more.

Her cold, lifeless body slipped from my grasp.

I glanced around.

The other tanks caught my gaze.

I smirked.

My own army.

I released the first…

The End.

Vanessa

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The Bookshelf Muse

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The Violet Ball

The Violet Ball

Traci Kenworth

Just where the violet ball came from, nobody knew. It sat there, between the paws of one of the two Bengal Tigers, both of whom looked more white than orange-and-black. Hunter and I worked on the daystaff at the Bringmin Zoo. He grazed my elbow with his own and pointed to the cages where a small crowd had begun to gather.

“Do they know, you think?” he said.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I pinched my lips. “I mean, they must. This is 2020. Most animals have been wiped out. Only holographic images remain.”

A little girl pointed at the animals, tears in her eyes. “Why isn’t he moving it, Mama? Doesn’t he like to play?”

“Shh,” Hunter whispered to me, as if my teenage voice could cover the distance between us and the crowd. “They might suspect but this is supposed to be a happy place. A place of memories.”

“Sure.” I sighed. “That’s what most of life is, isn’t it?”

“What do you think it was like? Once upon a time? To see a real, breathing Bengal Tiger?” he said.

I didn’t answer.

At seventeen, barely a year older than me, Hunter grinned. “It’d be a jazz, no doubt. To feel their breath on your face, the danger that lurked from being so close to those claws and savage jaws—”

We stared at the big cats.

Hunter looked away first, his view stopping on one than another staging of wild animals around the zoo. “Yeah, it’d been something.”

I put a hand to his shoulder. The contact made us both a little nervous and I pulled back. He stopped my hand.

“Think people are next?” He asked. “That we’ll, too, become no more than echoes in time?”

I shrugged. “Hard to say. Birth rates are falling, people are dying out.” I swallowed. “Yeah, maybe.”

We stared at the tigers, seeing in them, a lost chance at greatness. A future assured for the human race. Wars, starvation, increased gouging of lands, it all added up to the same. Defeat. Hunter and I pulled closer.

“Let’s not go out with a whimper,” he said.

I leaned into his kiss.

The End

Vanessa

Miranda

Rebekah

photo credit: delboysafa at morquefile.com

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To Tattoo or Not to Tattoo…

To Tattoo Or Not To Tattoo?

Traci Kenworth

No, I’m not in the market for one, but my characters are. I need something different

though. I mean, I know what it looks like, but I’m unsure where to place it. Has the shoulder been done to death in fiction? I can’t say. I just know wherever I place it, has to be a good location for them. You see, they’re a mountain people, hidden away from prying eyes, a culture all their own.

And they fight evil on the sly. Would an all-out shoulder tattoo attract too much attention? I’ve begun to wonder. I’ve thought of further down on the arm or even the leg. The back of the neck? Or across the mid-back. It seems there’s not a place nowadays unique to the art but again, I’m wondering if the placement on the shoulder brings to mind too many other books, movies.

It’s possible, no probable, that most people wouldn’t know what the tattoo stands for if they saw it, so this might not be an issue of visibility. Maybe it’s just that I want something different but it’s a bit of a headache on my part at the moment, trying to figure it all out. I just want my warriors to stand out, I guess. So what are your opinions out there? To the side of the neck? Across the back of their hands? Or are you sick of tattoos all together? Should I banish the idea? I would really like to hear from you.

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